


Sharp-Dressed Man

by tristesses



Series: Ball and Chain [3]
Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Clothing Kink, Dom/sub, Established Relationship, F/M, Femdom, Leather Kink, Oral Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-21
Updated: 2012-10-21
Packaged: 2017-11-16 17:40:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,193
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/542105
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tristesses/pseuds/tristesses
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For such an advanced society, Asgardians are very fond of leather. Natasha appreciates this, and by extension, so does Loki.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sharp-Dressed Man

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, the title is from the ZZ Top song. I'm not sorry.
> 
> This was written for the Kink Bingo prompt "leather/latex/rubber," and is part of a series but can be read on its own.

They've fallen into a funny kind of pattern for nights like this, she and Loki. 

One of them will go to the apartment - their apartment, really, though it's beyond strange to think of it that way - and invite the other over. (Loki uses things like talking birds or magical disappearing tattoos to let her know he's waiting. Natasha usually texts.) As soon as they're together, whether Natasha opens the door or Loki flickers into being in the living room, a tacit understanding falls into place: here, they play by her rules. In the outside world, all bets are off, and they've fought and gone out to dinner and, one memorable time, had a prank war (started by Loki, ended by Natasha) - but in the bedroom, Natasha is in charge.

At that point, she usually orders him to strip down. She likes the way Loki looks while naked, slimmer and smaller without all that bulky leather, and she likes making him feel vulnerable even more. Often he takes the time to fold his clothes neatly, by hand if he's feeling magnanimous and with magic if he wants to annoy her, but on nights like this one, he shrugs out of his clothes hastily, leaving them in a messy pile on the floor. She's noticed that greeting him naked and crooking her finger at him in command tends to make him do that.

Still, no matter how much she likes him naked, she's not a fan of clutter in her apartment, so when they've finished tonight, Natasha leaves Loki lying languid and satiated in bed, rubbing the rope marks on his wrists and staring at the ceiling, lost in thought. Making her way to the living room, Natasha sighs at his tangled clothes, those many layers of leather and linen and metal, nudging his pauldron from the rest of the pile with her foot. It's the only part of this outfit that resembles plate armor; the rest of it is all chainmail and thick, worn leather, runes embroidered throughout his tunic and breeches, presumably meant for protection and concealment. Working clothes, she thinks; he's vain about the other set, his gold and green armor, always casting spells to fix the dents in the metal, to mend his cape, to polish that helm of his that must be ceremonial, because it sure as hell doesn't protect his head or his throat. Absently, Natasha crouches, and begins to sort through the pile, setting the chainmail aside, folding everything made from cloth with neat, sharp creases, then turning to all the leather.

It isn't worn much in her line of work, not in the 21st century: too high maintenance, too low-tech. Still, she remembers how to handle it; there was a time when leather was a staple of her outfit, something she treasured and kept shined and polished - she liked to make an impression. Now, she has a leather jacket she wears on her days off, and that's it.

Not so with Loki. Gaiters, gloves, straps and sheaths, and of course his long surcoat, all well-worn leather, probably from some tough-skinned Asgardian animal. Natasha runs her fingers along them, tracing the lines and pits in the material, signs of battles fought. A long scar from a knife fight, here; a slightly scorched and tattered area, obviously from fire, there; and along the side of his surcoat, just below his ribs, what she recognizes as bullet holes. Natasha strokes the pads of her fingers over them, digs her nail inside one of the deepest experimentally. She comes up with the tiniest shard of metal, and wonders if he gouged them out by hand, leaving traces behind. It would appeal to his sense of ritual, she thinks, and besides, any armor enchanted like this would require such ritual to keep the spell strong. Natasha doesn't much like magic, but she knows that much.

Natasha rubs her thumb along the edge of the surcoat contemplatively, then pauses. Feeling a little stupid, she glances behind her, making sure she's alone, then sweeps the surcoat around her shoulders, cinching it against her body with wide leather straps. On Loki, they cut across his waist and his chest, one buckle at his hip and the other between his shoulder-blades, the strips of leather securing his pauldron on his right shoulder. On Natasha, one strap wraps low around her hips, a little loose, and the two chest straps cut across her torso, digging into the soft flesh of her breasts and the muscles over her ribs and stomach. She likes the feel of it, and finds herself stroking the front of the surcoat, rubbing her fingers lightly along the rough panels. Closing her eyes, she inhales, catches the scent of the leather, smoky and pungent, thinks of Loki wearing it to war, knives hidden and eyes sharper than blades. She catches her lip between her teeth, and her hand steals between her legs.

"Natasha."

She jumps, then rolls her eyes at herself, rising and turning to face Loki, who's lounging in the doorway, watching her with an unreadable expression.

"Loki," she returns. Looking tired and satisfied, he looms over her, easily a foot taller, and she experiences that familiar feeling of dissonance as she sees him here, then thinks of him in her bed, thinks of how many times she's made him beg for release, torturing him with a cruel, pleased smirk on her face. Shoving her thoughts aside, she lets that same smile curve her lips.

"You like it?" she asks, gently teasing. "I think it brings out the color in my eyes."

Loki licks his lips; something inside Natasha sits up and pays very close attention.

"It suits you," he says, and his voice is low. Natasha knows that sound. She runs the tips of her fingers down her body, over the leather straps, and between her legs, dipping between her folds and smearing her wetness around her clit. Delicately, she raises her hand to her mouth, licks her fingers clean, and Loki's lips part, his throat bobbing as he swallows.

"Put the helmet on," she orders on a whim, "and get over here."

Loki tilts his head quizzically, but he does what she asks, taking several fluid steps and falling to his knees before her, the helmet flickering into being. The horns jut forward, brushing against her stomach, and Natasha wraps her hands around them.

"Undress me," she tells him, and Loki presses his mouth to her stomach, right above the belt.

"Leave it on," he murmurs, his lips moving against her skin. "I like it."

Natasha smiles, lets her head loll back.

"So do I," she says, and spreads her legs, pulling him to the juncture of her thighs. She doesn't have to pull very hard. "Now get to work."

****

. . .

Of the two of them, Loki has always been the loudest in bed. Natasha is exceptionally skilled at tearing him apart, ripping whimpers and screams from his throat with her hands, her talented mouth, her whips and her vicious words, but she is often quieter, despite his efforts, and he makes a game of coaxing moans and cries from her wicked lips. Occasionally, he even remembers to play it. Most of the time, however, when she forces him down and makes him kneel at her heels like a dog, all he can think about is putting his mouth upon her, and he dismisses his plans completely.

Now, Natasha drags him against her, and once again his thoughts flee his mind. Using his horns as leverage, she wraps a leg around his shoulder, tilting her hips up to his mouth in clear command. Loki obeys, and he feasts. He licks at her hungrily, kissing her clit with his mouth open, his teeth scraping across the sensitive skin of her hood and lips, and arches his neck, pressing as close to her as he can.

"Your hands," Natasha instructs, and that is cue enough for Loki, who instantly spreads her open with two fingers and resumes with enthusiasm, ducking his head to dip his tongue inside her, then slipping two fingers there, finding the rhythm she prefers even as he returns his attentions to her clit, bracing himself with his other hand on her thigh. Above him, Natasha sighs, the barest edge of a moan caught in the back of her throat, and Loki shudders, curls his fingers in the stiff leather of the surcoat, and tugs her even closer. It occurs to him suddenly, sharply, that if he makes her climax - _when_ he makes her climax - she will be draped in _his_ clothes, in _his_ armor, her sweat and fluids and the memory of her trembling body trapped in the leather, a memento for him to keep and recall every time he slips into the leather's worn embrace. Loki wants that, he wants _her_ , and Loki makes a point of getting what he wants.

As Loki turns his head to drop kisses on her thighs, Natasha hisses in displeasure, jerking the horns of his helmet hard, forcing his mouth where she wants it to go. It hurts, the pain ricocheting down Loki's spine, and he groans against her cunt. She twitches, and Loki, entranced, does it again.

"Good," she whispers, "keep doing that, let me hear you," and Loki obeys, moaning and sighing his pleasure, hands twisted in the leather surcoat, as if only that and Natasha's grip on his horns are keeping him upright. Perhaps they are.

Her hips snap, and she takes a sharp breath, pulling him even tighter against her, grinding down on his face. Loki moans, ardent and approving, and rubs his face into her cunt, his mouth finding her clit, his unsteady hand finding her entrance and thrusting his fingers inside as he sucks - and Natasha gives one final shiver, a small cry escaping from her lips, and climaxes, convulsing around his fingers. Loki grins in triumph and presses one more fleeting kiss to her mound, then sits back, still kneeling, patient, hands on his thighs. 

Natasha leans against the wall and pants, her face flushed with color and her red hair sticking in strands to her forehead, red marks on the soft flesh of her breasts where the straps of his surcoat scraped against her skin. He savors the sight, knowing he won't forget it, the sight of his lovely Agent Romanoff, his Natasha, undone.

After a moment, she sinks down to sit on the floor with him, her legs stretched out to bracket him between them. Loki lets her catch the horns of his helmet, drag him in close, kiss him long and filthily, until she has stolen his breath from him once more. If she hadn't worn him out earlier, he would be hard and pleading for more, but as it is, he can only sag against her, torn between yielding to her touch and crushing her with his weight. It is an odd balance he walks, this place between submission and sadism, and one he finds very familiar as of late. To him, Natasha is his - no, he refuses to call her his master, for Loki is thrall to nobody, but under her hands, Loki allows himself to shatter, and more, he allows her to pick up the pieces and put him back together. That is a privilege he concedes to no one else; yet even as he loves her, he loathes her for it, for making him _weak_. And that dance between hate and love is also sweetly, painfully familiar to him.

Loki sighs, tucking his helmet away into a pocket between worlds with flick of his mind, all the better to nuzzle closer and lay his head on her breast. Natasha runs her fingers through his sweat-soaked hair; the strap of his surcoat abrades his cheek. He relishes the feeling. His surcoat, his Natasha; _his_ , and none other's, though he knows the ragtag group of vigilantes she calls friends would take her from him without a second thought. He could kill those friends, easily, silently, a shadow stalking them in their dreams, sliding icy fingers over their throats, and any survivors he would chase away to the gilded burrows from whence they came. Natasha would never need to know.

But she would, clever mortal that she is. She would look him in the eye and she would know, and Loki would have to kill her lest she come for him first. Counterproductive. Her loyalty is misplaced; someday he will convince her of that. Until then, he must find a new scheme to tie her to him permanently, for Loki always gets what he wants.

Loki glances up at her, catches a glimpse of her face, thoughtful, inscrutable. She is always opaque to him, unbending under his scrutiny, and even after these months, bordering on a year, he still cannot read her with any reliability, nor dissect her inner workings. 

"Natasha?" he says, his voice lilting into a question without his intention. She looks down, a gentle, quiet look.

"Loki," she says, certain and knowing, as if staking a claim to him. Loki shivers, and instantly, inevitably, melts into her arms.


End file.
